


Here Upon These Stones

by glockenspielium



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, F/M, France being France, Not everybody dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:14:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glockenspielium/pseuds/glockenspielium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras knows his purpose; his war is at the barricades and his glory will be their final stand for freedom. But what lead him to this battle? </p>
<p>Éponine was never meant to be there fighting beside them and yet she was, which changes everything. </p>
<p>Everything has a beginning, stones on which it builds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Upon These Stones

  _It is for the lonely ones, the ones who are in love with the loved but are not loved in return._

Éponine stumbles down off the barricade, pulling the jacket firmly around her waist, her head spinning, the echoes of gunshots and cries bombarding her ears. The too-large trousers snag on the broken wooden leg of a chair or table and she tumbles down onto the cobblestones, her hands stinging as they graze against the stone. Blinking hard, she tries to make sense of the confusion before her eyes; the sparking of guns and explosions marred by angry red, flying from the windows and staining her fingers- she brings her hands closer to her eyes, so close they suddenly slip out of focus. So much red…

"Clear out or I'll blow up the barricade!"

The voice cuts through the clamour like a blade. She tries to lift herself up, pressing her palms into the stones and craning her neck, but it's no use. Her muscles are stubborn in their throbbing pain and she can only gasp and attempt to lower herself down without causing further damage. A though slips behind her eyes- what if she was never found? Maybe he would search forever, never knowing she lay with the other young boys of the barricade; she would haunt him forever and always belong to him.

Éponine manages a smile, "Little he sees, little he knows..." Her whispers are lost to the grubby street beneath her face, but even that cannot bother her now. Marius never did love her, she ponders, not in the traditional way at least. But she had always been there, always at his side, she'd have done anything for him, and surely he must have noticed! He would notice for sure when she was gone, when he wandered the streets alone and had no one to send his letters or find him a path through the narrow and treacherous streets of Paris. She would be on his mind; she would always be there…

As suddenly as this though has come to her, the chaos and carnage that had plagued her heavy head calm and quieten. Opening her eyes, she begins to see the mud-licked shoes and socks tumble past her, the exhausted murmurs of male voices and the clatter of guns and ammunition being thrown to the ground of the café floor. The lamps are lit and brought outside, but why? Still disorientated, she turns her head to the side to see two boys pick up the limp body of their friend, supporting him carefully, and carry him inside.

Screwing up her eyes, Éponine lies as still as she can, cursing her shuddering breaths as she presses her hand against the wound, straining to remain motionless, unnoticed. The voices are coming closer now and she recognises one of them, Joly. She can't see him, but she can see his watery blue eyes and linen bag with such clarity that she knows its just her imagination, just as she can feel purple lace between her fingers and hears the sound of Marius' laughter when he's smiling and it's just them.

Her eyes slide shut and her lips part in a soft smile as rain begins to gently fall, slowly clearing the dirt off her cheek and forehead.

"Rain can't hurt me now…" She whispers, feeling her body slacken, content with the yielding pressure of the falling droplets.

A voice calls out- "Did you hear that?"

Lesgles. _Merde_.

Éponine presses her other hand on top of the first one, pressing as hard as she can to suppress the growing agony, but this only causes her back to arch, a cry of pain escaping her lips. Her hands are so wet and she wants to curl into a ball but somehow her limbs will not let her. The moment of bliss is gone and the world of the barricade forcefully reins her back to the hurt and misery of life.

The voices are beside her and now other hands are touching her, pulling back her shirt. She is almost pleased by the gasps of indignation- it must be bad. That's good, that means she won't last long, she'll still die for him here, tonight. The strong arms pass beneath her and carry her to the soft yellow light of the café, meaning to be gentle but only making the pain worse. Someone pulls off her cap and she yelps with indignation, and then a voice cries out twice, confusion swiftly smothered with concern- "Éponine? Éponine!"

Marius' every expression was already etched into her memory, but to see his gentle face, contorted with worry for her, is a final blessing she did not expect to deserve. Éponine can almost count his freckles, he would never have come so close to her before and his eyes are turning red as tears well at their corners. Just for her?

She remembers with a sting the letter concealed in her jacket pocket, from Cosette to her Marius. Tempting as it is to leave it there, to let the lark leave and Marius remain a broken man, she cannot do that to Marius. Just imagining his last memory of her being this: she pulls the letter form her pocket and hands it to him, smiling as she tells him it will lead him to Cosette and watches the tears begin to roll down his cheeks as he speechlessly takes the envelope and tucks it away.

This is more than she'd ever dreamt of; he's pulling her into his arm and stroking her hair, murmuring comforts, telling her she'll live and how he'll help her. He is mistaken but she doesn't care at all. The sensation of his warms encircling her and the caress of his fingers are easily worth dying for.

/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|

He watches as they bring in the bodies.

Beside him, Grantaire has already opened a new bottle of wine, not bothering with a glass. He has brandished the alcohol in the general direction of Énjolras at least three times now, offering him the comfort sought in forgetting, but Enjolras will not allow himself such a luxury. He is still their leader and as such, this is his fight, his revolution, and this is the price that it brings.

He stands wearily from the small wooden stool he's been perching on and makes his way over to a makeshift bed, sheets and wood arranged on the bare floor, and looks down at his friend and fellow student Prouvaire. His blonde hair is matted with thick, dark blood and, even in the peace of death, his face remains contorted by his suffering. Énjolras remembers the day he joined l'amis de l'ABC, with his soft voice and softer words, he remembers doubting that this shy, optimistic young boy would last long. And yet here he was, one of the first to die in battle and surely not the last. Somehow, he expected death to throw a heroic light on his friend, if only to acknowledge the valiant cause he devoted himself to and died for. But if anything, Jean Prouvaire looks broken and infantile, his jacket still a little too wide across his shoulders and his beard not yet full.

There is some commotion across the room and Enjolras draws away, not wanting to interfere with the commotion of a friend's death. It is probably his friend too, but here, things are differnt- he is the leader, he needed to be wise, fearless and fair. Looking up at the crowd surrounding some poor soul, Enjolras considers the fact that he has no idea what one does when they are watching their friend die. He accepted long ago that this was always a possibility; he would have been a fool to ask his closest friends to join him in the fight without considering such options!

And yet, standing around, making piecrust promises and last wishes, he knows he could never partake in such a bizarre ritual. With a sigh, he sits down again, resting his head upon steepled fingers, sweat and dirt mixing on his skin. It must be worth this, for France, for her people, it must be-

"Non, Éponine!"

His eyes flash open as the cries finally reach his engrossed ears and in an instant he has crossed the room, the crowd around their fallen friend parting to reveal to him what he'd hoped never to see again.

Éponine, her crumpled form clothed in the dirty clothes of a boy, bleeding and unconscious. Marius has his arms around her, his lips move swiftly with affections and prayers, as those around him look on with sympathy and tears.

He spins, fury burning as he spits out commands.

"What are you doing all just standing here? Stand back, give her room to breath at least!" Whatever tranquillity the temporary armistice had brought to Enjolras is gone, and he burns with purpose.

"Combeferre, fetch back Joly, he can attend to the dead later, not while the living are still with us!" His friend nods and scurries off, "Lesgles, fresh water and bandages," and then as an afterthought, "And something to lift her back, a pillow or jacket perhaps-" He is apparently speaking to himself by this point, as he pulls off his red military jacket and, rolling it into a ball-like shape, moves to place it under Éponine's head. However, to his surprise, Marius has no intent of shifting.

"Leave her be my friend, let her at least leave this world in peace!" Éponine gives a gasp and writhes in his lap, punctuating the end of his exclamation. Enjolras watches with a furrowed brow as Marius tightens his hold on her waist, soothing her sobbing moans of, "Mal, mal, mal..." With hushed words and soft kisses along her brow. He then glares up, accusative and supposing that her actions have well supported his defiance of Énjolras' commands, but the blonde is barely shaken.

"That is all very well indeed, Marius, were she about to leave this world! But as it were, Éponine" her eyes flutter in response to her name and his swelling speech, "is not leaving, not yet. I intend on ensuring that, seeing as she does not appear to have her own best interests at heart- and nor, I am discovering, do you." Pausing for air, Enjolras is suddenly pushed aside by the arrival of a rushed Joly.

The beginnings of Marius' retort is cut short as the medical student orders Lesgles about, moving Éponine to a flat surface and pulling open her shirt to reveal the bloody mess beneath the fabric. Stumbling to his feet, blood draining from his face, Marius stumbles back, shaking his head. It is clearly a lot easier to comfort the dying and ignore the gaping, bleeding wound than confront the carnage of bullets face on.

It is an ugly sight and Enjolras does not blame him for his revulsion, even he has an urge to move away. But far stronger than this is his need to watch what happens next. He notices Coufeyrac walk over to Marius and clasp a form hand on his shoulder, sharing in the suffering that has struck them all.

Enjolras sets his mouth to a stern grin (which honestly looks far closer to a grimace), and watches as Joly cleans out the wound, applying alcohol to the ruptured skin and restraining Éponine by her shoulders and hips as she bursts into bouts of alertness, screaming and swearing viciously at anyone she can see. Clever fingers and implements take advantage of her finally falling still again to pry the bullet remains from within her, tossing them to the cafe floor, before turning to stitches, all the while the sheets beneath her growing more and more red as she bleeds out beneath their hands.

Finally Joly wraps her torso in new, nearly-white bandages, wiping the beads of tense perspiration from his forehead. Feuilly darts forwards from the small group gathered around Éponine and confirms that there were no other wounded, and Joly nods his appreciation and understanding, then collapses down into the chair next to her, eyes closing, his task complete.

"Coufeyrac, you take the watch." Enjolras is as surprised as his comrades are by how hoarse his voice sounds, but he presses on. "We can't be sure when they'll attack next. Every body else, get some rest. This is far from over."

They listen and obey, many following Grantaire's lead and nursing a bottle of wine where they have fallen, in a stool or propped against a wall. Marius scribbles words onto a ripped and dirty scrap of paper, calling over Gavroche, who is swiftly sent on his way. As he watches the young boy dart away into the dark, Enjolras finds himself hoping that the boy finds some sense of self-preservation and does not return, but that is doubtful. Quickly checking to see that Coufeyrac is stationed outside, Enjolras pulls a chair up to sit next to Joly to watch over Éponine- if his friend finds this unusual behaviour, it is not considered important or not worthy of being mentioned. There is a gentle solemnity to their silence, as they exchange glances, smiles and raise bottles to each other and to themselves. They are still alive and they are free- and in that moment, Enjolras feels as if they have never been closer, despite what the coming dawn might bring.


End file.
